Rest Your Weary Head
by K Hanna Korossy
Summary: He'd thought older brothers were supposed to be the protective ones. Outsider POV.


_Previously appeared in _Rooftop Confessions 2_ (2007), from GriffinSong Press  
For wolfpup for her birthday_

**Rest Your Weary Head**  
K Hanna Korossy

He didn't sleep as well since Eileen had been sick, but it wasn't as if the noise was very loud. Ben lay in bed a few moments after waking, in fact, wondering if he'd really heard anything at all or if Gem had just been up to mischief again. But no, it was…a feel more than a sound, the certainty he wasn't alone in the house. Anyone from town would know to call before just showing up at the clinic, and that he had a rifle and wasn't afraid to use it. Ben rose and grabbed the weapon soundlessly as he crept out the door.

The clinic was in the front of the house, rarely entered territory now. He kept it clean and stocked just for some of the old-timers who still stopped in on occasion with a fishhook embedded in some part of their anatomy or bad cases of sunburn or other ailments they were too embarrassed to go to the new hospital outside town for. But Ben was supposed to be retired. At age forty-five—too young, Eileen had insisted even on her deathbed—but medicine had let him down and he couldn't seem to forgive it.

The main clinic was dark and almost silent, but he could hear the whisper of movement by the far wall. By the medicine cabinet, and Ben's lips pursed in silent anger at the stray addict or dealer who had broached his sanctuary and come looking to rob him. He followed the man's movements for a moment, noting the way the thief never silhouetted himself in front of the window and once paused as if sensing Ben, and that decided it. This wasn't just one of the town boys being stupid. Rifle to shoulder, Ben reached over and flicked the light on.

The young man—because of course it was a young man—whirled around, hand already reaching into his scuffed leather jacket.

"Uh-uh. I wouldn't."

Large green eyes narrowed, ticking to the rifle, then around the room. Assessing options. The twentysomething was clear-eyed and had good muscle tone: not a strung-out junky looking for a fix. An experienced dealer, maybe, or just someone who needed cash and knew how to get it. Ben set his jaw.

"Raise your hands slowly. I may be a doctor, but I won't hesitate to put a bullet in you if I have to."

Ben got a glare for that. An agile brain was obviously working behind those sharp eyes. He knew the type and had a healthy fear of them. His rifle never wavered.

The young man had his hands half raised when he suddenly, unexpectedly grinned. "I'm guessing you wouldn't believe me if I said I was just looking for the john."

"Oh, I think it's pretty clear what you were looking for."

A casual raise of the eyebrows. "Hey, things aren't always what they seem. Come on, aren't you even a little curious?"

"No, I'm—" And unbalanced was abruptly what he was, as Gem chose that moment to dart into the room, get a look at the stranger, and rear back, twenty pounds of cat hitting Ben's leg.

The thief was already moving, probably getting ready to pounce, too. It didn't matter in the long run. The sudden shift of weight tightened Ben's finger on the trigger and the rifle went off.

Still aimed at his midnight visitor.

The young man fell back against the wall, startled green eyes falling shut as he slid down, leaving a splatter of red on the whitewash behind him. And down the side of his face.

Head shot. The gun sagged in Ben's numb hands as he stared in disbelief at what he'd done. He hadn't meant… Being prepared to shoot was a world apart from actually shooting. And considering he'd never had anything two-legged in his sights before, this was…this was just…

Ben staggered a step forward. He was supposed to save lives, not take them. Not even a stupid drug dealer's.

Another step, stumbling again over Gem's weaving body. The thief—boy, really—didn't move, half his face covered in—

"Put it down and get away from him."

His agitation made him jump in shock at the second voice, although Ben couldn't seem to muster much fear when he turned around. An even younger man, this one's shirt already bloodied, stood filling the doorway—young, not small—aged determination carving his face from stone as he stared at Ben over a cocked handgun. Ben had no doubt at all he'd use it, too.

Another dealer? Ben felt faintly surprised the kid hadn't just shot him. He certainly looked furious enough for it. It wasn't until Ben set the rifle down and took a step to the side that he saw the second kid's eyes even flicker, jumping from him to the motionless shape behind him. That was when Ben saw the fear, and understood a little more.

"Another step." The voice was still ice-cold, treading the narrow edge of hatred. The handgun jerked, indicating direction, and Ben obediently followed, casting one more glance at the young man he'd…he'd shot. The blood was dripping off his chin and ear now, and Ben's eyes narrowed. If he was still bleeding…

The new arrival was moving, cutting off Ben's line of sight, hard stare never leaving him even as the kid crouched down beside his friend and felt for a pulse.

"He's still alive," Ben confirmed quietly.

Another flicker, this time of relief. There was more here than partnership in crime. Ben watched as the kid's hand traveled from the older one's throat to the side of his face, gentle in a way no hophead he'd ever seen could even conceive of being. Ben slid his attention back over to the gun, still aimed directly at him, and sighed in resignation.

"I can help him, if you'll let me."

Full attention on him once more. This kid had green-brown eyes, not much different from his buddy, and now that Ben looked at them with a trained eye, he could detect other shared traits, too. Relatives, probably. Brothers?

"You shot him." There was the faintest tremor in the hard tone now.

"He was ransacking my clinic," Ben said flatly.

"He was just getting some bandages for me." And the guy's free hand gently turned one of the limp ones splayed on the floor. Several packets of sterile gauze slid free.

Ben's stomach turned a little. Drug dealers he could handle shooting. A kid who'd been stealing supplies for his injured brother? He flinched, but raised his chin. "He was still robbing me. I didn't know—it was an accident. But I can help him."

Conflict filled the young face. The glance back at the other was so automatic, Ben could have pegged their relationship just from that. Definitely younger brother, seeking guidance from the elder even when big brother was unconscious. Even when the younger held that handgun with what even Ben could recognize as casual competence.

Then a blink and it was gone, never meant for his eyes in the first place. Incongruously old hazel bored into him. "You hurt him and I will hurt you."

The simple matter-of-factness of the statement made his throat dry. Ben swallowed and made a face. "Right. Of course you will." He stepped forward. "Let's get him up on the table."

The gun moved with him and Ben jerked to a stop. Waited, wary and heart-stuttering, as the kid slowly uncocked it, raised an eyebrow, and lowered the weapon to tuck it into his pocket. Close if needed.

Ben started moving again, only to find his way blocked a second time, this time bodily.

"I've got him."

He didn't argue.

He expected a practical fireman's carry. Instead, the careful slide of arms under his friend's—brother's—knees and back, the way the kid made sure the lolling head rested in the crook of his neck and jaw instead of wobbling loose, cemented something in Ben. Even bad guys cared for their own, but not like this. Someone this tender had a heart. Ben found himself starting to worry about the kid he'd shot more than about himself.

The weight staggered the younger one as he rose, and he paled. He was bloody, after all, his condition the catalyst to the break-in. Probably should be sitting down, but there was a stubborn set to his jaw that kept Ben from trying to help. He just watched as the younger settled the older against him for the few steps over to the table, chin tucked protectively against the hanging head, then laid him down with care. The hand cradling his neck eased out last, sliding over the short-cropped hair. The unconscious man didn't even stir. Ben couldn't see the kid's eyes under all that loose hair as he looked up to nod warily at Ben, but he could guess at their expression.

He began moving around the room with familiar efficiency, gathering supplies. "He like that jacket?"

A soft snort behind him. "Yeah." Hoarsely.

"Might want to get it off him before it gets blood on it or we have to cut it off."

By the time he turned around, the jacket was just landing on a nearby chair, that same cupped palm slipping out from under the dark-blond head. It splayed across the patient's shoulder, rising and falling with his shallow breaths.

Ben approached the table from the opposite side, letting his mind clear of guns and midnight break-ins and the shadow looming over him—filling the doorway had been no exaggeration—and got to work.

A careful probe confirmed what he'd already suspected. Ben glanced up. "It's just a deep graze. Skull's intact."

He watched the kid lose about ten years in front of his eyes. "So he's gonna be all right?" A soft twang had crept into the young words, maybe Texas.

"Still rattled his brain, but…" Ben couldn't string this kid along, not with those wide, scared eyes. Good gravy, where had the hunter gone of whom he'd been so scared? "Yeah, he should be fine with a few days of rest. Lucky kid, your brother."

A hand, large and cold and hard as iron, clamped on his wrist. "I never said he was my brother."

Oh, Ben winced. _There_ he was. "You didn't have to. I can see the resemblance. Comes with the MD, kid."

A moment of digesting that, then the hand retreated, leaving five long red marks in its wake. "He's my older brother."

"Kinda figured that," Ben murmured as he worked. "You gonna tell me his name?"

Another hesitation. "Dean."

It had the ring of truth, although he doubted he'd get a last name out of either of them. "Dean. Okay, and you're…?"

The smile was unexpectedly wolfish. "Dean's brother."

Ben made a face, bent over to clip some hair from around the wound. "Right."

The wound site clean, Ben reached for the suture packet he'd set out, and found to his surprise that the needle had already been threaded for him, a surgical knot expertly tied at the end. He didn't even ask, just shook his head and took it, easing it through skin.

His patient, of course, chose just that minute to start to revive, flinching faintly with a sub-vocal groan.

Ben's left hand moved to keep the head steady, and he found himself preempted a second time. A broad hand cupped over the sweaty forehead, fingers disappearing into the short hair, Dean's brother had managed to plant himself where he was in Dean's line of sight but wasn't blocking Ben's.

"Sss…"

Ben wasn't sure if it was an attempt at the kid brother's name or something else entirely, but the kid responded to it. "Dean, hey. Everything's fine, all right? I'm fine."

Not _you're fine, _but _I'm fine. _Interesting.

And apparently what Dean needed to hear. He relaxed, eyes dulled to muddy brown now, half-open and vaguely on his brother. So, they were really hazel, too. What a surprise.

The kid's thumb rubbed over his brother's brow. It reminded Ben of the way Eileen used to calm down the kids when they were scared. "I'll take watch—you get some rest, all right?"

_I'll take watch_. Another interesting choice of words. And the question at the end of each line, so little-brotherly. Ben found his mouth curling in faint amusement.

Dean blinked once but couldn't maintain awareness. He slid back under without a fight, not flinching even as the thread slid through his skin. As if he knew the feel.

One more stitch, tiny to leave as little scarring as possible, and Ben tied off the thread, feeling his every motion scrutinized. The wound didn't need covering, so he continued on downward, automatically checking out the rest of his patient, monitoring vitals. There were some bruises on his face, perhaps two-three days old. Ben frowned but ignored them, kept going.

Dean's brother once again checked him, hand firm but not as tight around his wrist as Ben reached the bulky left shoulder. He threw the kid a questioning glance.

"He's fine," was all the clipped answer he got, the dark eyes warning him to leave it.

But he'd already felt the warm skin through the t-shirt, and the doctor in Ben couldn't let it go. "Whatever it is, I think it's infected."

Another moment of internal conflict, jaw clenching and unclenching. Anger he didn't think was directed at him simmered briefly in the camo-flecked eyes. "He, uh…we tangled with some…people." A faint, unamused snort. "A family straight out of _Deliverance._ They…burned him. Branded him like…" He swallowed.

The bitterness definitely wasn't aimed at him, and Ben felt a little of it himself at the thought. Branded—God have mercy. What had these young men tangled with? Then a sudden connection snapped his gaze up. "Wait, you mean…that family up in Minnesota? The one that's been in the papers all week—couple dozen remains found, cages, all that?"

It was the first mistake the kid had made, and Ben saw the realization of it and the frantic backtrack. "What? No, uh, over in Arkansas. Just a few backwoods yahoos. Never been to Minnesota."

"Uh-huh," Ben said skeptically. Sure he hadn't. But he just gave the kid a pointed look, waiting until the young face flushed and the hand retreated from his wrist. Ben pulled the neck of the t-shirt down to have a see.

Sure enough, for all the burn looked tended to, an infection was just starting to redden the edges, edema puffing it. It should have been hurting worse, but he guessed Dean wouldn't have mentioned it until it got bad. Foolish young toughs.

Foolish older brothers.

"He have any allergies?" he asked as he started to clean the burn.

"No." Instantaneous and sure. Even mothers sometimes had to rack their brains for their kids' medical histories.

Ben kept working, not reacting to another round of Dean waking dazedly, looking for his brother, calming and drifting off when he found him. _Watch_, the Benders, the blood on Dean's brother's shirt; it was all beginning to come together.

A shot of antibiotics followed, then a quickly finished assessment, the kid's stare urging him on. There were some more bruises, more scars than there should have been, but nothing actually wrong. Ben finally tucked a blanket around his patient and met his brother's stare.

"He's all right, he just needs sleep now. Your turn."

He saw rebellion flare in the kid's eyes, had just enough time to think _foolish little brothers,_ when he was surprised by the graceful capitulation. The jacket with the gun in the pocket was shucked and set aside—although still in reach—and then the young man was hissing as he tried to struggle out of layers of t-shirts.

Ben grabbed his surgical shears, raised a questioning brow. "May I?"

A resigned sigh and a wave of the hand. Ben hacked through two layers of material and eased them aside.

The cuts across the breastbone, three of them parallel and razor-sharp, were just as he'd expected. The ones that followed the Langer's lines of the skin looked almost like paper cuts unless you pulled at them and saw how deep they went. He wasn't about to do that on the kid, but he'd seen enough of that damage in autopsy. The perpendicular slashes gaped a little, exposing sliced muscle underneath. It had to hurt like nobody's business, let alone when you used those same muscles to lift something as heavy as a human body, but the kid had barely shown any reaction.

Ben traced the cuts, noting other, older scars, albeit less than on Dean. He did see the soft tremors of exhaustion, feel the stilted breathing of a man reaching the end of his endurance, but besides unusual pallor, there was no sign of weakness in the young-old face. Ben threaded a new needle.

"You want to lie down?"

"No place to in here," the kid answered wryly, and that seemed to settle it. There'd be no leaving his brother.

Ben braced him with one hand and started talking as he stitched.

"So, you hunters?"

He was pretty sure the kid's start wasn't from the bite of the needle.

Ben nodded vaguely toward the jacket. "The weapons," he clarified.

The kid didn't relax so much as step down a little. "Uh, yeah."

"What do you hunt?" he asked casually.

A beat. "Whatever's in season."

Fine, two could play this game. "We've had some unusual creature around here mauling people lately. Wish someone would go after it."

He could feel the kid's caution, probably only because the young man was so clearly tired and probably a little woozy. "We heard."

Ben let it lie a few seconds. "In fact, the cuts I've been seeing on the bodies are just like these."

No response. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see the kid's hand slide under his brother's wrist.

"But I have a feeling we've seen the last of that thing, whatever it was. Don't you think?"

One more beat. He could feel the heartbeat pound under his steadying hand. "Yeah, I do," Dean's brother said quietly.

_That's what I thought. _Ben just nodded, finished up his sutures in silence. Didn't even offer the bed in the next room, just aimed a chin at the doorway. "There's a La-Z-Boy in the living room if you wanna help me drag it in here. Pretty comfortable for sleeping in."

He was assessed for the umpteenth time that evening, a slow, exhausted once-over. "Thanks, I think I've got it covered."

Ben shrugged. "Suit yourself. Pull up a chair then, make yourself at home. There's a sink in there—try to get your brother to drink some water if he wakes up. There're washcloths in there, too, if his temp climbs. Blankets are in that cabinet if you want one. I'm going back to bed, but call me if something turns. Oh," he paused, "and don't shoot me when I walk in in the morning."

That actually brought a spark of sober amusement to the tired eyes. "Right. 'Cause _you_ never shoot first and ask questions later." But there was no real anger in it now. Ben wondered if that was because the kid understood or because Dean would be all right.

The fact he'd shot anyone at all still made him uncomfortable, but Ben forced himself to smirk. "He was robbing my clinic."

"He's a good person," the brother said softly. His pointer finger and thumb met over the pulse point in Dean's wrist.

Ben suddenly felt like an intruder in his own clinic. "Yes, well. Next time, ask. People might surprise you."

He got a more thoughtful nod than he'd expected.

"Get some rest, kid," Ben said gruffly, and turned to go out the door, nearly tripping over Gem again in the process. Even as he cursed the cat, he felt strangely unworried at having the two strangers inside his walls.

"Sam," came the murmured response behind him.

He stopped, turned back. "Ben."

Then shaking his head at the insanity of it all and wondering what Eileen would have thought, Ben left the two young hunters and went back to bed.

He thought for a long time before sliding into sleep.

00000

Unfamiliar sounds woke him a few hours later for a second time that night.

Ben left the rifle behind and hurried with more certain steps to the clinic door. Then stopped.

Dean was curled on his side along the edge of the exam table, retching miserably into an emesis basin. Sam must have grabbed it for him, because he held it in one hand while the other was cupped around his brother's forehead. His hip was jammed against Dean's to keep him from rolling right off the table, and that blocked a lot of Ben's view of the proceedings. But Sam's soft voice was audible as it rose and fell over Dean's misery.

"Don't worry about it, nothing you haven't done for me a coupla dozen times, right? It'll get better in a minute. You're okay, Dean, just got your head a little scrambled. You're okay."

Ben waited, knowing there wasn't anything he could do right now that young man wasn't already doing but unable to make himself stop watching just yet.

"Easy, easy. Almost over, man, just roll with it, all right? Almost over." The words verged on tender. Sam pressed a little closer, elbow hooking over his brother's shoulder as if he could absorb the older man's distress if he just got close enough. Ben had a moment of doubt that he was the younger brother, after all.

Or maybe he'd just had a good role model.

Then it finally really was over, the bucking body stilling, only Dean's panting and the occasional groan filling the quiet. Sam shifted to put the basin down, and for a moment Ben could see his patient's flushed face and slitted eyes. Probably not too aware, although when a hand went blindly groping, Ben figured Dean at least knew whom he was with.

Sam captured the hand, and glanced around as if looking for something.

"I'll get him some water," Ben said quietly from the door, making the kid start, then give him that narrow-eyed assessing look all over again. Ben ignored it as he crossed to the sink and filled a paper cup, returning to the exam table with it.

He was right about Dean being just barely conscious. Sam coaxed him to swallow some of the water, and Dean gave a garbled murmur that Ben couldn't make out but that made Sam smile. He leaned over his brother to whisper something back that Ben was clearly not meant to be privy to. Dean blinked groggily once, then his eyes closed. Sam rubbed a thumb across the back of his hand until the desperate grip loosened to simple contact, then sagged onto the edge of the bed.

"Could be the head injury or could be the antibiotics. We'll switch to something else tomorrow," Ben said, eyeing the younger man.

Sam nodded. "Yeah." A sideways look up at Ben. "Thanks."

A tremor ran through Dean, and Sam leaned forward to grab the blanket that had slid off him and pull it back up to his neck.

Ben nodded and went back to bed. Sam had watch, after all, and he seemed pretty darned good at it.

00000

He slept late the next morning and peeked in after he got up, hearing the murmur of a voice. Sam was sitting exactly where Ben had last seen him, talking to his brother, who appeared unconscious. Then Ben saw Dean restlessly shift, stilling just as quickly at Sam's touch, voice. Sam kept going, wringing out and replacing a compress over his forehead and eyes.

Ben went to have breakfast.

He came back with rolls, jam, cold cuts, and tea an hour later. Dean was sleeping deeply again, flushed but appearing comfortable. Sam almost looked worse, dazed with fatigue, in the groove of caring for someone who needed it without realizing what he himself needed.

Ben watched them a moment, then declared he needed to check his patient and shoved the plate of food into Sam's hand. He stepped obliquely between the brothers.

And found himself carefully but firmly moved out of the way. Sam had barely even exerted himself.

Well. Fine. Ben wrinkled his nose and went around to the other side of the bed, muttering under his breath about how older brothers were supposed to be the protective ones.

Sam watched him while he worked, absently clearing the plate as he did. The ruined t-shirts were gone, his button-down shirt buttoned up to hide the stitches and bandages. The tea seemed to rally him a little; his mouth curled when Ben declared Dean's burn looked better and the bullet wound was in good shape. Neither of them said a word about the compresses or the fact that Sam had clearly stayed up all night.

On watch. Ben sighed. "You're safe here, you know that?"

Suddenly wary eyes jumped to his face. "Maybe," Sam said, but sounded like he didn't believe it.

"Well, you are—you can relax. You need some sleep, too."

No answer to that. He recognized the mulish look from before, but under that something more now, something sad and resigned. "I'm all right," came the blatant lie, Sam not even trying to sell it.

Ben just resisted rolling his eyes. "Fine, you don't want to sleep? Then talk."

A slow blink. Some things were automatic, but higher thinking, especially suspicious higher thinking, was clearly taxing the kid's limits. "About what?"

"I don't know," Ben said, settling into the other chair in the room. "Gardening. Who's going to win the next election. Baseball. Dean."

The laugh was such a foreign sound coming from the kid, it surprised him. "I only know herbs. No idea who's going to win the election or who's even in the World Series. And Dean's…complicated."

His hand was back near his brother's, and Ben realized this time it wasn't just idle touch. There was blood limning the elder's fingers, probably from Sam's injuries the night before, and it agitated his sibling. Sam's fingers worried and rubbed at it, careful not to press too hard but otherwise seemingly not even aware of what he was doing.

Also oblivious that Dean's eyelashes were fluttering, consciousness on the slow way back.

Ben refocused on the kid. "Everyone's complicated, son."

"Yeah, but Dean…" The same fatigue that weighed each word of Ben's seemed to loosen Sam's tongue. "He takes care of everybody but himself. Only reason he got burned was that he came looking for me. Got shot for me, too."

Dean was breathing faster, one finger curling against the padded exam table. Sam still didn't notice, tired and almost bitter.

"I wish…" A shake of the head. "He needs to take care of himself better. I need him to." Dean's head rolled toward him.

"Well," Ben cocked his head, "maybe he could start by not breaking into offices."

Sam's dark eyes sparked. "You have no idea what our lives are like," he snapped. "This isn't how we want to live—Dean's got more ethics, and heart, than most people I know. He just…where I'm concerned, he has this blind-spot—"

"…th'size o'…Sasquatch."

Sam's head whipped around with impressive speed. Joy wiped away the shuttered look, and every bit of adulthood. "Dean."

Ben rose and crossed the room to the small alcove bathroom, wondering just how much Dean had really heard. He kept an ear on the murmured conversation.

"What happen'd?"

"You got shot, dummy, remember? Grazed your thick skull."

"Must be why…room's underwater."

"Y'all right?"

"'M fine. You?"

"I'm good. Doc stitched me."

"Good. S'good. Where're we?"

"Still in the clinic. The doc shot you, then fixed you up."

"Dude…"

"No, Dean, it's cool. It was an accident—I think his cat tripped him." His voice went unexpectedly humorous. "I guess that means you got shot because of friggin' Garfield."

"'S not funny." But he didn't sound too outraged, either. Just really tired.

Sam clearly heard it, too. His voice softened to near inaudible. "Sleep some more, Dean, all right? We've got some time."

"Where're we?"

Sam blinked. Ben took the cue to step in. "My clinic. You won't have to stay long if you let yourself heal a little more."

Dean roused, eyes flicking to him in surprise, and Ben realized Dean hadn't known he was there and his lack of alertness disturbed him. But the doctor couldn't help a smile as hazy muddy eyes pieced the clues together. "You shot me."

"I did. Sorry. Like your brother said, Gem—my cat—got underfoot." Not that he'd told Sam that, but he was starting to get how observant the young hunter was.

"Sammy, you…shoot him back?"

"Sorry, Dean, I wanted to but we kinda needed him."

"Hmm."

Ben pressed forward, glass of water in hand. "Don't go to sleep yet—we need to get some fluids in you, Dean."

Sam immediately took the glass, helped his wincing brother push up enough to drink half of it down. They both looked exhausted at the end.

"Go back to sleep, Dean," Sam ordered softly.

Dean growled low in his throat, stubbornly fighting sleep all the more.

Sam leaned over. "Gotta give your hair time to grow back, anyway. Doc had to cut some of it to stitch you up."

If that was meant to lull Dean to sleep, it had the opposite effect. His eyes widened at that, alarm and dismay flaring in them. Ben winced.

"Some brother you are…let guy who shot me…treat me, cut my hair…least it's not long like yours…girl…" His eyes were creeping shut. The lighthearted talk had eased his resistance and his worry, sliding him into sleep. Sam had known what he was doing.

"Whine much, man? Shut up and sleep, Dean."

"You, too." And then he was out.

"Not bad advice," Ben offered after a moment.

Sam sighed with his whole body. "Yeah, maybe. I just wanna sit with him a little longer, all right?"

Ben shrugged, gathered the remains of breakfast. He'd have to actually fix something for lunch that day, and again he wished Eileen were there. These boys could have used a mother more than a middle-aged ex-country doctor like him.

He left Sam exactly the same way he had six hours before, sitting slightly hunched over, keeping _watch_.

00000

Ben had some errands to run in town, locking up Eileen's jewelry and the important papers before he left the house, pausing in front of the police department before shaking his head and moving on. Not regretting either decision. He wasn't stupid, but, darn it, he liked those two. Believed in them, for some reason. Mostly.

It was way past lunchtime by the time he got back, but Ben took his time. With two fat roast beast sandwiches and two mugs of milk, he headed back to the clinic door.

His first sight was of Sam sprawled loosely over the edge of the bed, back bowed as he slumped forward from the chair. Those long limbs were all akimbo like a dropped puppet, legs poking out from under the bed, one arm under his cheek, trapping Dean's hand with it, while the other trailed down along the length of his brother's blanketed legs. His face was turned away, but there was no question he was deeply asleep.

Dean, however, wasn't, one hand moving slowly through the thick hair, pushing it back so he could peer down to see the face underneath. His stoicism had thawed in private, but it showed fierce affection, not pain. The whole scene had a feel of familiarity behind it, a ritual done a thousand times in the past, and Ben suddenly wondered if the boys had been orphaned.

He stepped back, then clumped his boots as he approached the door.

The expression was smoothed away, but Dean's hand still rested on top of his brother's head, protective now. In contrast, defiant, almost amused eyes examined Ben minutely, assessing just as his brother had. Knowing he'd been there a moment before and daring him to say something about what he'd witnessed.

Ben didn't. He'd had a big brother once.

He put the tray down on the table beside the bed, then lifted off the bowl that sat at one end. "Let's clean up your hands."

Dean gave him a confused look, then a rebellious one. His mouth opened to protest.

Ben kept his voice low, not wanting to wake the sleeper. "The blood on you. It bothers him."

He saw the moment of capitulation but didn't belabor it, just wiped Dean's one hand clean. He then waited while Dean wormed the other one free, resting it also briefly on Sam's head when his brother stirred and resettled.

Discomfort had replaced defiance, and Dean fidgeted lightly under Ben's touch. He wasn't too surprised when Dean finally spoke up. "You do this for all your patients?"

Ben threw him a grin. He didn't know why he'd expected the two brothers to be alike, but they definitely weren't. "Only the ones I shoot."

"Happen often?" Dean asked lightly.

"You're the first." It was Ben's turn to squirm. He hadn't let himself think too much about it: pulling the trigger, seeing Dean fall. Nightmares would come later.

"Lucky me." But again there was no blame. He didn't seem to like looking up at Ben, however, and reached down to gingerly maneuver himself higher, biceps cording with the strain. But Sam groaned, then mumbled in his sleep, and Dean instantly stilled. With a look of chagrin, he settled back down into his half-propped position on the pillows. He tilted his chin at the sleeper. "He doing okay?"

"The cuts were deep but clean. The muscle damage'll take a while to heal completely, but there should be no permanent impairment or complications."

"Good." Dean nodded. Hesitated. "Thanks for taking care of him," he added roughly.

"I guess it was the least I could do after stopping you from doing the same." Ben set the pink water aside and offered the tray of food, watching as Dean willingly accepted a sandwich with both hands and dug into it. His hands trembled just from the exertion of holding the food, and he looked like it was an effort to stay awake, but he was hungry and…

Sam wasn't keeping watch anymore, Ben suddenly realized.

He cleared his throat. "I also figure it's just fair payment for what you two did. I mean, how often do you get compensated for hunting these creatures with a taste for human blood?"

Dean didn't quite swallow wrong, but it was a near thing involving a few coughs and a gulp of milk. Ben found himself under new suspicious scrutiny, but he met it evenly. Dean was figuring out how much he knew, how much to say. Finally offering, cautiously, "Yeah, those bears and mountain lions can really be something."

Ben gave him a half-smile. "I bet. Living out here on the edge of all this untamed space, I've met a _hunter_ or two before. I couldn't do what you do."

Turning wheels again, teeth worrying his lip. Ben was willing to bet Dean was the better liar of the two. Sam probably didn't need to be, with that earnest little brother charm. Then the easy grin reappeared, so much more behind it. "Someone has to."

"Yeah," Ben said quietly. "I guess they do."

Dean lit back into his sandwich, but he kept an eye on Ben like he was still trying to figure him out.

Ben dumped the water, nodded at the food. "He'll need that when he wakes up; he lost enough blood that he's probably a little lightheaded by now. But he was determined to make sure you were okay."

"Yeah, he gets like that," Dean said fondly in a _huh, little brothers! _tone, totally oblivious to the irony. "I'll make sure he eats it."

"Good." Ben stood, contemplated a minute, then headed back toward the house. "Oh, uh." He paused, half-looked at Dean. "What _was _it you were hunting this time? Those cuts…"

"You really want to know?" Dean asked.

Ben paused, then huffed a laugh. "No, actually. In my world, cancer's the worst SOB out there. I'd kind of like it to stay that way. And Sam said the danger's over."

Dean's eyes had cut to his wedding ring and then back again, and his look altered slightly. One survivor of loss recognizing another. It somehow burrowed deeper into Ben's gut than all the expressions of sympathy after Eileen's funeral. But all Dean said was, "Yeah, it is."

"That's enough for me." And it was.

He didn't mention on his way out that Sam's hand had curled into a loose fist by Dean's knee, but considering his fingers had already sifted back into the mop of dark hair, maybe Dean already knew.

00000

They stayed two more days. By the second one, both slept at the same time, if always within reaching distance of each other and of weaponry.

Jim from the sheriff's office called the third morning, saying he'd heard about some fancy car out that way and had Ben seen anybody? Town was still a little stirred up from the recent _animal _maulings. Ben said no, but it was only a matter of time before someone came out looking. And he had a feeling his guests wouldn't want to be found.

Sam moved slowly and Dean still looked dizzy when he tried to focus on something, but they helped each other out to the car and Sam won the argument about driving. Ben had seen the Chevy outside earlier, running a hand over her lines and wondered what was in the trunk. He was pretty sure it was Dean's car, and their home.

In the passenger seat, Dean fished out a bottle of water and drained half of it before Sam swiped it and finished it off. Then he checked Dean's temperature, which earned him a jab to the side that doubled him up. Ben took a step closer, a little alarmed, only to quickly realize it was a feint, Sam coming up with surprisingly deep dimples while Dean blustered off his own worry. He finally shook his head and settled back into the seat, Sam still grinning, and they waved and drove off.

Ben walked back in, gave the empty clinic a long look. It suddenly felt too empty. Maybe he _had_ retired too young.

There were a lot of people out there who still needed help.

**The End**


End file.
